painkiller /belle+sin

This time the instructor at the plants station had given Sin a hand trowel. "To save your fingers," they'd said. He held it in his left hand, grip tight, enamored with his tiny shovel. There were still bandaids on his fingers from tuesday and his nails still stung beneath the bandaids.

There was a small dish of seeds beside him and Sin was digging quickly, intent on his task. He liked the rhythm to it and the way that it was harder to think when he was in motion. His thoughts, that usually ran so deep, were shallow things, little ripples on a big pond. It was hard to be in pain like that.

It reminded him of digging back home, in the forest behind the mines. How many hours had he spent out there, the smell of death beside him waiting in a bloodstained sheet? He could still hear the whispers, the frenzied begging from beside him as he dug deeper and deeper, but never deep enough, nothing was ever deep enough to mute the whispers.

Sin started scraping at the dirt, fear driving him. His fingers caught stone and little bits of wood.

Suddenly, he dropped the trowel and threw his hand back. It fell into the hole in front of him and Sin scrambled backwards, feet kicking at the dirt. His breathing came too quick and he bunched his shirt up in his hand, trying to calm himself.

For a moment, he thought he'd touched flesh.